


The (Not So) Sweetest Thing

by melly_diamond



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 13:22:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12233700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melly_diamond/pseuds/melly_diamond
Summary: : When Georg is ordered to quit smoking by his doctor, he tries – he really does. But while his intentions are good, his willpower is wanting, and so he turns to his best friend to help him kick the habit with results ranging from odd, to, well, inventive.





	The (Not So) Sweetest Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a fic fest with the prompt "Georg is trying to quit smoking and Gustav does everything that he can think of to curb Georg's cravings." I like to think that in real life, the boys really are capable of being this silly, if not sillier. There are no real warnings: they curse, Gustav is exasperated, Georg is a wreck. I think anyone who's ever tried to kick a vice can relate.

New Year’s Eve, 2013 …

It’s not like Georg hadn’t known he had a bad habit … he was aware. Very much aware.

Every time he pulled an increasingly exorbitant amount of cash out of his pocket to feed his need, he was aware. And he meant to quit, he did. It was on his Five Year Plan.

Five years ago, that is. He had vowed to kick smoking to the curb in 2008, and here it was, the start of 2013, and damned if that wasn’t 1,2,3,4,5 years now. 

It was time.

He didn’t want to take any of the drugs out there to quit; he’d heard mixed reports of their effectiveness and other than the occasional aspirin, he didn’t like putting chemicals in The Body. Well, other than nicotine, tar, arsenic, ammonia, lead and formaldehyde, but hey, he only did that ten or fifteen times a day, at most.

Okay, maybe 20 or on a really bad day, 30 times. But that was all coming to an end. From now on, he would have sweet breath, white teeth and squeaky clean fingertips. His hair would smell like coconut and peach, and his lungs would be back on track to be so pink and spongy you could bounce a coin off them. Yes. This was going to happen. He set a date for a month in the future; by March 31, his birthday, he would be free of this stinky albatross around his neck. No more standing outside in the rain and snow because he just had to have a cigarette. No more suffering through long plane flights while in the midst of a major nic fit. No more racing through a terminal and having to sit down and pant like a dog when he reached his destination.

He was done.

DONE.

He had read up on various ways to quit, had scoffed because honestly, hypnotherapy? Patches? Electroshock therapy? Really? That shit was for pussies; all you needed was willpower. Put your mind to something and just do it, no problem. And smoking was just a nasty habit. A habit. Pfft.

He was gonna kick smoking’s _ass_.

Secure in his confidence, he decided to keep a journal, physical evidence to gloat over later. He set up a document on his laptop and prepared to be awesome.

_January 1, 2013_

First day of being smoke-free. I got up around 10 AM, hit the gym till noon, showered, and ate. No cigarettes. I feel amazing. I LOOK amazing. I don’t even miss it. Tossed my stash last night, all the ashtrays this morning, opened the windows, and aired the place out. It’s fuckin’ cold now, but worth it. This is easy. All the people who bitch are such drama queens. Whine, whine, whine.

_January 2, 2013_

Still awesome. Did laundry today, had the cleaners in, shampooed the carpets, furniture. Place is spotless. Smells fantastic. Why did I wait so long to quit that shit?

_January 3, 2013_

Minor slip today; had one in the car. Habit, pure habit; turned on the radio, lit up. Just one though, tossed the rest into a garbage can at McDonald’s. Forgot about the car, ha ha. But that was it.

_January 4, 2013_

Forgot to clean out my OTHER car, too – what an idiot I am. Had a pack in the glove compartment and half a pack on the passenger side seat. Ooops. Still only had two. Not bad. Not good, no, but not bad.

_January 5, 2013_

Fuuuuckkkk ….

& & &

_January 14, 2013_

Gustav knocked on the door, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet; he was happy for Georg and had brought him a little present to encourage him; a new pair of running shoes for the 5K marathon Geo had spoken of completing once he had kicked “that lousy habit.”

He expected to be greeted by a chipper Georg, bursting with health and willpower and ready to do all kinds of things – climb a mountain, maybe, fly a kite, surf the coast of Australia. But that was apparently not to be the case – not on this day.

A tired and slightly pissed-off looking Georg greeted him with a beer in one hand, smoldering cigarette in the other. “Hey Gusti.”

Gustav looked him over and sighed. “And on the fourteenth day it went all to hell.”

“No, basically by the seventh day it had gone to hell. This is like super-hell.” Georg sighed and let him in, and Gustav looked around at the detritus of Georg’s willpower; empty Marlboro boxes, beer bottles, something indeterminate that had once been oatmeal, dirty socks and the like. He sighed again.

“I know, I know, it’s a pit. Once I blew it majorly it just escalated back into an exaggeration of my normal slothy life.”

“Geo, this IS your normal, slothy life – no exaggeration.”

He set down the bag, which Georg eyed interestedly. “What did you bring me?”

“Running shoes,” said Gustav, pulling off his hoodie and laying it over a chair before going into the kitchen and getting a trash bag, collecting the empty bottles and cans. “For the marathon you were gonna run once you got some lung power back. I can take ‘em back though; I kept the receipt.”

Georg bit his lip and stubbed out the cigarette that was nearly burning his fingers by now. “I … wow, thank you. That was a really nice thing for you to do.”

Gustav shrugged. “I was happy to do it.”

“You’re pissed at me, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not pissed. Disappointed cause you were so ready this time and so positive. But it’s your life, Geo, your health and choices. If you can’t quit or don’t really want to, then that’s fine. I’m not gonna judge.”

“Except that you kind of are.”

“Yeah, except for that. I guess I thought hey, I did it, and even the twins managed to do it, and God knows, Bill was a chimney, so I figured Mr. Workout would have no problem. But it’s okay.”

Gustav had gotten a nearly full bag of bottles and shook them. “I still love you,” he added, giving him a little smile before he lugged the bottles out to the garage, slinging them over his shoulder like Santa Claus on a bender.

Georg sat down, feeling guilty; he’d started out so well and then one little slip led to another and another and then this orgy of excess and he felt like a shit. Tom had been texting him from the US, encouraging him and mocking him at the same time in his own inimitable way, Bill had called him and said “If I can do this, so can you, no problem. Got faith in you.” And Gustav had been right there; sure he could do it, never giving him a hard time, always supportive. And he’d failed them all. And himself.

He sucked.

When Gustav came back in, Georg had his own trash bag and was tossing all the empty packs, all the ashtrays, full or not, as well as the few remaining packs he’d bought. He was throwing away lighters, matches, general trash, and leftover takeout, everything in his little circle of hell.

He straightened up when he felt Gustav’s eyes on him. “Hey, would you do me a favor? More of one, I mean?”

Gustav wiped his hands on his jeans. “Sure Geo … what do you need?”

“Can you go through the house and pretty much ransack it, toss anything bad away, and do the same for the cars? I mean, I thought I had, and missed a ton of shit, so if you would for me? That would be awesome.”

Gustav smiled for him. “Sure dude, I can do that. Happy to.”

He clapped Georg on the shoulder as he walked by on his way to the stairs, and Georg watched his solid friend make his way upstairs before taking a deep breath. He could really take almost any reaction from anyone and not bat an eye, but Gustav being disappointed in him made him feel like shit.

While Gustav was upstairs, Georg took the running shoes out of the box and looked them over – they were exactly what he would have chosen himself. Gustav knew him well.

He fingered the laces, knowing that this had been a sincere gift for his friend, who believed in him.

He really sucked.

When Gustav came back down, he was shaking his head. “You’re a sneaky little shit,” he said, dumping Georg’s trash bag into his own. “You had crap stashed everywhere. I’m kind of impressed and also, kind of horrified.”

He lugged the bag out to the curb and dumped it in with an especially rancid-looking pile of garbage, just for extra assurance that Georg wouldn’t go frantically dumpster diving once he was gone.

Back in the house, Georg was sitting at his table with a pad of paper and a pen; he looked up when Gustav came in. “Hey … I need your help.”

“You need someone’s help, that’s for damn sure – sure it’s me?” Gustav got himself a beer and a bag of pretzels - Georg had only bar-type food in his house, presumably to recreate the atmosphere of his favorite places on earth – and sat down across from him. “So, what's up?”

“Okay. Obviously my plan – plans – didn’t work and I am a loser. I can’t do this alone, so I need like, a sober buddy. A healthy buddy. A loyal minion.”

“Minion? Try again.”

“Friend. Close friend. Close, caring friend who will help me be a better person. An amazing, awesome supporter of my future life. The whipped cream to my sundae.”

Gustav raised a brow at that. “That sounds kind of wrong, bro.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

“I hope I know what you mean and what you mean isn’t what most people would think it means. I mean, really.”

Now it was Georg’s turn to raise a brow. “You’re a strange man, Gustav. All right. So, plan. A written life-plan. A missive, a declaration, a manifesto.”

“You know, if you want a drill sergeant, you should be talking to Bill. He would love to boss you around, withhold any form of happiness from you until you did as he dictated, and kick you around with his KISS boots. It’s like his life’s dream to make others miserable for his amusement.”

“Exactly – he’d enjoy it, the fucker, and you won’t. At least not sadistically. And Bill can be bought, we all know that. You’re a rock. Come on, Gusti, please. I need you.” 

Gustav was still skeptical, but over a few beers, they came up with a workable plan, with no apparent flaws. No obvious ones. Georg could do this, Gustav could help, and it would all be good. Right?

Right.

& & &

Day One of the rest of Georg’s life was to start deliciously; every time he craved a cigarette, he was to suck on a piece of hard candy – replace one oral fixation with another. Simple, effective, proven, all that good stuff. Harmless.

Or it would have been if Georg hadn’t gagged on the sugar-free kind of candy Gustav had bought for him, and instead switched to Jolly Ranchers, which were pure, condensed sugar. In a matter of four days, he managed to give his formerly flaw-free mouth not one, but two cavities, followed by a visit to his dad – always fun – and Novocain, followed by a lecture about willpower from dear old Dad. At least the Novocain made it bearable, even though he could do without the lisping and drooling. So not sexy. Not that he was trying to be sexy, but any hope of that was out the door.

When he could finally talk, he called Gustav, waiting impatiently for his friend to pick up. “Hey, how are you do…”

“Two cavities!” shrieked Georg into the phone. “TWO! From that fucking candy! What the hell, Gustav? Are you that jealous of my smile that you want to ruin it?”

Gustav rubbed his eyes, holding the phone an arm’s length away; those who thought Bill was the only diva in the band had never seen Georg in his finer moments. “Wait, how much did you have to eat to get cavities, huh?”

“Not that much – three bags. Big deal.”

“Three bags of those Jolly Ranchers in four days? Holy fuck, forget your teeth – you’re gonna give yourself diabetes!”

“Oh, that’s fucking fantastic; bad teeth AND a terminal disease.” Georg sighed and sat down on his couch. “I really, really want a cigarette right now.”

“No, no smoking. It’s time for plan B.”

Gustav drew their written plan out of his pocket – he’d made copies for that inevitable moment when Georg would crack, tear up the paper and possibly burst into tears. He was prepared for all contingencies, because he was Gustav and that’s what he did.

He got into his truck and drove over to the Listing manse, bypassing knocking and coming right in to plop himself on the ottoman.

“Okay, so no cigarettes, dude. I anticipated that you might have a ‘moment’ and purchased these the other day.” Gustav drew out a small box from his pocket and handed it to a fidgeting – and still slightly drooling – Georg. “Nicotine patches.”

“Those things you stick all over your body and they help curb cravings?”

“So I’m told. My dad quit with these, so did I – they really help.”

“Wait, you really quit?” Georg peered at Gustav nearsightedly – that boy needed glasses so bad, thought Gustav. He looked like Mr. Magoo when he was concentrating, which, admittedly, was not often.

“ _Yes_ , I quit – when was the last time you saw me smoking?”

Georg thought. And thought some more. And then realized he really couldn’t remember. “I don’t know, like, six months?”

“Try over a year. I totally sympathize with you, which is why I’m helping you out.”

“Also, you love me.”

“That, too.”

“So even the twins have stopped? It’s only me now?”

“So they say. I will believe it when I see and don’t smell it, but they claim to have quit, cold turkey. Bill lies, though, as we both know, so …”

“Dammit, I’m the only weak link.” Georg sighed heavily and pouted, making Gustav roll his eyes.

“But you won’t be for long. Think of tour, how healthy we’ll be. The dogs won’t cough, you’ll be able to find Bill by other means than a cloud of smoke, Tom won’t always be stealing your cigs and leaving you flat in the middle of the night, you won’t be huddling outside radio stations or venues in the rain, and the snow puffing away in wet desperation, your hair will smell all lemony …”

“I know, I know – all those things are good things. And wait, how do you know how my hair smells?”

Gustav looked at him patiently. “It’s kind of in my face a lot. It’s its own entity; you could claim it as a dependent. Also, I bought you this great shampoo. Smell it!”

Gustav produced a large bottle of “Sunny-Sun-Sun Lemony Joy” and pushed it across the table at Georg, making a note on his sheet; of what, Georg had no idea. Maybe he was doodling a lemon with flowing hair, who knew?

He stared at the bottle suspiciously, and then at his best friend, still drawing. “Uhm, thanks?”

“Sure.” Gustav looked up and sighed. “I was in the drugstore, okay? Trying to help your addicted ass out, so I was wandering the aisles and it smelled good. I have the Kiwi-Kiwi-Wahooey for me. Wanna sniff?”

Georg rubbed his face. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

“It is. But I suppose you want to get back to the work at hand. So. I bought these and then and as an extra, added bonus, I wrote inspirational sayings on them all. Or an inspirational drawing. See?”

Gustav opened the box and took out a patch with a seagull soaring over the ocean. Georg inspected it.

“And?”

“What?”

“Gustav. How is this supposed to be inspirational?”

Gustav sighed heavily; Georg didn’t only have to be led to water, you had to shove his head into the well. “It’s a free bird, soaring above earthly concerns.”

“It looks like a seagull.”

“Duh, they’re at the beach, Sherlock.”

“The last time I was at the beach, a family of seagulls shat all over my car. It looked like it had been through a guano street war.”

“Seagulls don’t shit guano – bats do, and so what? That isn’t the point.”

“The point is they shit a lot, I feel like shit and …”

“ _You_ shit a lot! You should identify. But look at the deeper meaning! Freedom! But fine, there are others.”

He showed Georg the others, some earning snorts of disbelief and ending with a metaphysical discussion of underlying beliefs about life, the Universe, and everything. So, they watched "The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy," ordered pizza and drank a whole lot of beer.

The day was somewhat redeemed. Somewhat.

& & &

The nicotine patches should have worked, they really should have. They were easy to put on and take off, and if you followed the directions, it was fine.

The problem, reflected Gustav as he shoved his feet into his shoes at 2 AM was that Georg had a problem with authority, even when it was written in large red letters on a white box.

Moments before he’d been awoken by Georg’s ringtone – Somebody I Used To Know, because the Someone He Knew Now was a pain in the ass – and picked up his phone to hear, “AHHHGHHHHGUSTI! GUSTI, YOU THERE?”

There, here and deaf, thought Gustav blearily. “What do you want Listing?”

“I’M HAVING NIGHTMARES! BIG, HAIRY TOOTHY MONSTERS WITH CAVITIES! And they’re scary and I don’t dare go back to sleep and you need to come help me!”

Gustav processed and rubbed his face. “Help you do what?”

“Calm down, dude! Please!”

“I’ll be there in a few,” promised Gustav, hanging up and reflecting that at least when you were Bill’s best friend, all you were required to do was reassure him as to who was the fairest one of all a few times a day. That was minor, compared to Project Healthy G. here, which entailed being screamed at, awoken at god-awful hours and forced into marathons of Dr. Who against his will.

Georg was pacing – and smoking – when Gustav got there and his first act was to take the cigarette away, put it out outside and sit Georg down. “Where are the rest?”

“What?”

“The rest of the smokes. Hand ‘em over.”

“Uh … there aren’t any. I found that one in the couch.”

That said a lot about Geo’s housekeeping, although nothing that Gustav didn’t know already. “Are you sure?”

“Yes - I mean, no, there aren’t any more, promise.”

“Okay then, so what happened? Tell Uncle Gusti.” Gustav leaned back, and Georg nodded, starting to tell him about his colorful, very real, very scary dreams. Gustav was duly impressed.

“Dude, those are pretty fucked up,” he said with some admiration. “What did you drink before bed?”

“Nothing! Coke! That’s all.”

“Huh. Well, so you drank Coke, watched TV, brushed your teeth, took off the patch, tossed it, and went to bed and …”

“Whoa, wait. Take off the patches?”

Gustav eyed him. “Patches? Plural? And yeah, you don’t wear them at night, they can … oh shit. Well, take it off now, and drink some tea, some water, try to sleep again.”

Georg blew out a breath and nodded, pulling off his t-shirt and making Gustav nearly die.

“Georg. Buddy, you don’t wear them all at once! Holy shit!”

Three on each arm, two on his stomach, two on his shoulders. “Geo – you only need one, maybe two at a time. You wear them for 8 hours max, and you never sleep in them, and just, fuck. These release nicotine in doses into your bloodstream and basically, you smoked a whole carton with your torso alone.”

He shook his head. “Only you. Only. you.”

“So this was wrong?”

“So wrong, yeah.”

“Damn. Well, I wanted one, and it sort of went away, and then it didn’t, so I put another patch on, and then thought, well, another one might be good and then I looked lopsided, so yeah.”

Gustav eyed him, and then stood up. “Go take a shower, scrub yourself, and I’ll make you tea and tell you a bedtime story, okay?”

“A dirty one?” Georg looked hopeful.

“No, a nice one. A calming one. The last thing I need is to leave this house, knowing you’re wanking helplessly because of me.”

“You can’t leave! What if I have more bad dreams? And so what if I wank? Remember the night in Munich when we all drew that target on the floor and …”

“Do not remind me.”

“But you won!”

“Of course I did! You’re blind, Tom tries to overachieve and fails, and Bill sprays like a sprinkler. But we swore to never speak of it again.”

“Tch tch tch…” Georg made a sprinkler sound, and Gustav snorted. “Asshole. Go shower, and fine, I will sleep on the couch and not tell you dirty stories.”

“We could watch porn!” Now that he knew he wasn’t going insane, Georg was chipper.

“No. Go. Upstairs. Now.”

Georg went, Gustav made tea, and they wound up watching Cinemax till 6 AM as a compromise.

& & &

It was a decidedly good thing that Gustav was a planner, he thought as he considered his list over coffee; Georg was still asleep, peacefully or otherwise, and Gustav, being a morning person by habit, was up and messing around in the kitchen. He poured himself a steaming cup of java, and crossed hard candy and patches off his list. Okay, so they were two down. The next one was more serious, and after that?

Well, the one after that was a last ditch resort and it was very definitely not written on Georg’s list. No way. It was an ‘if all else fails and only cause you’re my best friend’ option and Gustav hoped they’d never have to get that far.

Really, he did.

He waited till just past 8 AM and called the number he’d found the other day, got the information, considered it, then made an appointment for noon, letting Georg sleep in.

At 11 AM, he went and woke a crabby Georg. “Go where? What? Fuck, what time is it? Dammit, I need coffee and a smoke before I go anywhere.”

Gustav was patient with Georg, which would have shocked the rest of the inhabitants of his little world, since Gustav was not generally known for his empathy or compassion. “Just get up, put on some clothes, pull your hair back, I have your coffee ready, and come with me, okay?”

“Wheerrrrre?” Georg whined, although the smell of coffee was helping, marginally.

“To the clinic.”

“Do I have crabs? Gonorrhea? Syphilis?”

“I sincerely hope not. If that’s the case, you’re on your own, but no, it’s not that kind of clinic.”

Georg grumbled, but got up and got dressed – sort of – and shoved his hair under a beanie, grabbing his coffee and going along with Gustav, only squinting at the sign when they parked in front of a long, low, white building.

“Hypnotherapy? Say what?”

“Plan C – hypnotherapy, yes. It teaches your subconscious to associate smoking with something unpleasant so that your conscious self changes its habits. Very successful, especially with gullible folk like yourself – you have a noon appointment.”

Gustav consulted his NASA space watch which appeared to be ready to launch a nuclear strike, and nodded. “Let’s get you signed in and ready.”

Georg looked suspicious, but that was becoming his default expression, thought Gustav, and herded him in, getting him the paperwork and a pen, and patiently telling Georg when his birthday was, if he had allergies, if he took any meds and at what age he had stopped wetting the bed.

It was truly remarkable what this boy could not recall on a daily basis.

Finally, he was ushered into a room, and Gustav stayed behind, despite dark predictions that without a witness, the hypnotist would probably program him to hump a children's birthday clown’s legs or do a Mexican Hat Dance (complete with colorful sombrero) whenever Bruno Mars came on the radio. Gustav personally would love to see either of those things happen, but assured Georg this was strictly medical and to suck it up.

Then he leaned back and thought cheerful thoughts, like the fact that the American Taco Bells now had cool ranch Dorito tacos for a buck and how he was headed straight there from the airport next month, and fuck Tom’s “agenda.”

An hour, then 70 minutes passed and Gustav was starting to wonder if the hypnotist was indeed dressed as a clown and dirty stuff was going on, when a noticeably more serene Georg emerged; even his hair looked calmer, which was no small feat, and Gustav was suitably impressed.

“Feeling okay there, dude?”

“Awesome, never better. I’m hungry though, grab some lunch?” Georg beamed brilliantly at Gustav, who eyed him, but smiled. 

“Sure.” Gustav jangled his keys. “So, did you identify your triggers?”

“I guess. He told me that whenever I wanted to smoke, to think of something gross and disgusting, like stubbed out butts in the mud, people with tracheotomies, and horrible wrinkles around the mouth, sulfuric acid, shit like that.”

“Eww. Well, those things would do it to me. What did you pick for your image?”

“Tomatoes.” Georg swung into Gustav’s truck and fastened his seat belt, while Gustav blinked. Tomatoes?

“Georg,” he said slowly. “Tomatoes are not inherently disgusting things.”

“Says you; I think they’re gross.”

“So you had a choice of wrinkled folks with tracheotomies smoking through a hole in their throat, rained and snowed-on butts in the mud, or acid burning your face off, and you chose … tomatoes?"

“Uh-huh. The shrink said it seemed like a very personal decision.”

While Georg checked his hair in the mirror, Gustav sighed. Apparently Italian food was off the menu for lunch.

& & &

In the following days there were three separate tomato-based incidents; once, Georg was passing a roadside stand on his way to see his cousin, feeling proud of himself for not smoking in the car – his favorite place to do so – and when the craving grew too much at mile 132, he had pulled over at a farm stand and decimated a bushel of heirloom tomatoes, stomping on them in a deranged dance and finally finishing with a “Take that, you motherfucking red demons!” and was billed 43 Euros for his destructive actions by a very irate farmer.

Gustav, witnessing this via Bluetooth had groaned and made a mental note to hide any and all salad ingredients from his friend; today tomatoes, tomorrow celery – nothing was safe.

Other instances included a moment at a salad bar that made page two of Bild, and a long denunciation of all tomato-based products in the grocery aisle, ending with Georg holding a 2 kilo can of sun-dried tomatoes aloft and shrieking, “We have seen the enemy and it has diced chilies mixed in!”

Before the police could be called, Gustav had hustled him out, and while Georg huddled in a corner on a bench outside, frantically smoking a cigarette he’d bummed from the stock boy who had been called to clean up on Aisle 8, Gustav reconsidered his plan.

Electroshock therapy was summarily ruled out because of the potential super-frizz potential of the Listing mane, which led Gustav, finally, to Plan H. “H” for “How the hell am I even thinking this?” and also “How in fuck is this supposed to work? “H” was also the first letter of hemorrhoid, and this entire ordeal certainly qualified as a pain in the ass.

& & &

Gustav let Georg stew in his own tomatoes for a day or two, and then finally decided that it was now or never, this was all he had to offer, and if this failed, well, Georg would have to hope he’d look cute on stage with an oxygen tank strapped to his back, his Sander bass on the front. If he leaned back too far, he’d topple over, but hey, that would be either Tom or Bill’s problem. King Gustav of Percussion City never descended to the common folk till the show was done, son.

He called Georg. “I’m coming over. Open all your windows and doors and air that place out because this is serious business and I’m not walking into the House That Marlboro built to discuss it.”

He hung up before Georg could formulate a rejoinder, and took a deep breath. This had to be his most insane idea yet, but if it worked, it could start a whole new trend in smoking cessation studies, as well as a huge swell in lip balm sales.

He drove over, armed with his own weapons; Carmex, Garlic pills, and a healthy sense of pragmatism. And beer. This plan called for beer, and lots of it.

Georg was waiting for him, looking chastised and resigned. “I can’t do it, Gusti,” he sighed. “I really did try. While you were off paying off the store manager to not call the cops, the doctors at the psych ward, and incidentally, the tabloids, I thought about it. I just can’t stop. I want to, but not bad enough and I guess there is nothing strong enough to make me. I’m sorry. I feel like a shit.”

He sat down on the couch and looked down at his hands. “You think you’re cool as fuck when you start smoking at 16 and then suddenly you’re 26 and you wake up in the morning, coughing up lung tissue in pinkish-gray gobs. It’s not a pretty thing.”

“No, no, it’s not. And that’s why I have one last thought. Just hear me out, okay? Don’t dismiss it, just consider.”

Gustav took a breath. “Okay. You’re straight, yes? Your unholy alliance with Tom aside, you are strictly all for the ladies, right?”

“That was ONE NIGHT six years ago, and it’s not my fault Tom still rhapsodizes about my abs,” started Georg. “Jaeger was involved – I take no blame for anything when shots of pure “Fuck you, you peasants, you will do my will!” is involved. But yeah, I am straight. A ruler is more bent than I am.”

He eyed Gustav. “Why?”

“Because ... and this is what you need to think about. Does kissing guys turn you on?”

Georg stared at him. “Are you casting for another one of your amateur movies? “Hugo the Elephant Boy" did very well, actually, once they realized what part of him resembled an elephant.”

“Shut up. I mean it. Does it? In general?”

“No. Not … no. Why would I want chapped, rough lips, when I could have soft ones that taste like peach and mangoes? Or watermelon; mmmm, watermelon. And let’s not even start on scruff, ‘cause beard burn is not on.”

Gustav took a breath. “That’s what I thought. So, for the next however long it takes, I am gonna be glued to your side, and every time you feel the urge to smoke, you’re going to kiss me. Not a peck, a full-out smooch.”

Gustav leaned back and Georg stared at him. “You want me to kiss you.”

“Not exactly; I want you to kiss me instead of smoking. The theory is, since you don’t enjoy kissing men, that the threat of having to kiss me will diminish your desire to smoke until finally you will do anything – i.e. not smoking – to avoid it.”

There was silence. “You have lost your mind,” said Georg slowly. “It’s been going in bits and pieces ever since the Humanoid City tour and Bill’s PoufyHairGate, but I think it’s finally happened. You’ve become certifiable.”

Gustav stared back at him steadily. “May I remind you that it was not I who stood in the market just days ago, hoisting a can of vegetarian chili and calling all tomato-haters to arms?”

“I wasn’t suggesting breaking open the cans and making out with those foul lycopenic acid bombs!”

Gustav shrugged. “Look, Geo, this is all I have left. You asked me to help you, and fuck knows I have tried. And tried, and tried some more. I have exhausted my resources. You’ve managed to go overboard on every possible option and this is what I have. If you’re not down with it, fine – I didn’t sit up at night trying to find a way to kiss your sweaty, beer-and-stale-smoke-smelling ass, if that’s what you’re thinking. I thought this would maybe not get you arrested, not cost you a shitload of money and the ire of farmers near and far, and not rot your teeth or make your hair puff out. Okay? It’s up to you.”

Gustav got up and went outside to sit on the steps – hell, _he_ wanted to smoke, but didn’t, just took a deep breath and looked out at the yard, which needed mowing. And mulching. And would it kill Georg to trim the roses back?

Inside, Georg processed; Gustav was right. Nothing else had worked, and while this was radical, it was also something that might work. He loved Gustav, but not like that and if it didn’t work, it didn’t. And he’d have to deal with it.

He got up and went to the back door, looking down at Gustav and his little cowlick that created a near bull’s-eye on the back of his head; he and Bill had pitched M&Ms at it once on a plane while Gustav slept - or pretended to. Come to think of it, they'd both gotten soundly thrashed once they stopped taxiing on the runway.

“Hey, Gusti.”

Georg sat down next to him. “I really love that you’ve tried to help me, you know? I’ve been a pain in the ass, and I’m sorry, dude. I am. And I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. So if you’re willing to give this one more try, then sure. Let’s do it.”

Gustav looked over at him, eyes looking like creamy Nutella behind his glasses. “Sure?”

“Sure.”

Once again, they went through the house with garbage bags and a keen eye, and when Gustav was satisfied, he made them dinner – sans anything squishy and red – and they ate in front of the TV, companionably, as they had for years.

Predictably, Georg began to fidget a short time later, and Gustav understood – post-dinner was a bitch, he remembered well. He turned to Georg, looked him over, and then popped a small garlic pill, chasing it with beer. The combination made him want to throw up, but garlic was good for you, right? He was helping himself _and_ his buddy.

When Georg began to sigh audibly, Gustav turned to him, cupped his cheek and pressed their lips together. Firmly. For at least 20 seconds.

“Oh my GOD, what the fuck did you … eww!” Georg drew back, grimacing. “Dude, you taste like …”

“Shit?”

“Yes!”

“Good, grossed you out. Now that’s what a cigarette will taste like to you.”

Georg groaned. “Gross. Jesus Christ, yuck.”

Gustav smiled. Normally a kiss of his being received with an “Oh, God, gross!” would dismay him, but this time? He was pleased.

Georg was rinsing his mouth out with Amstel, and Gustav leaned back, satisfied.

& & &

By the third day, Georg was gagging at the very thought of kissing Gustav; so far, he’d been treated to garlic, onion, hot tamales, pickle juice, flat-out salt, peppercorns and whatever else Gustav kept in his fucking arsenal. It was just astounding, the ultimate game of “What’s grosser than gross?”

A road trip involved kosher salt, chili powder and butterscotch chips, a combination that made them have to pull over, swiftly, while Georg gagged. And while they waited in line at a movie theater near a group of smokers, Gustav noted Georg sniffing hopefully and treated him to tomato paste, fish paste and allspice.

Georg was not the only one heaving after that one. Gustav reflected that he was almost too good at his own game.

But Georg wasn’t smoking. He wasn’t even sneaking them. He didn’t even consider them, because fish paste was a fate worse than death.

But one morning, he caught Gustav making coffee, and kissed him – and tasted orange juice (fresh squeezed, Gustav wasn’t a barbarian) and sugar and coffee and it was the best thing he had ever, ever tasted.

He didn’t let on, just scowled. “Morning breath,” he grumbled and went outside with his coffee, sitting down and thinking. Gustav came out a few minutes later and sat a step above him, thinking too, and before long, Georg felt firm, yet weirdly soft fingers idly untangling heavy curls and stroking them. He was sure Gustav didn’t even know he was doing it, and he wasn’t going to stop him.

He leaned his head into the touch, and closed his eyes.

Sugar, orange juice, black coffee.

It beat the hell out of watermelon any day.

& & &  
At the one-month mark, Gustav considered the experiment a success; Georg wasn't smoking, or trying to sneak them, wasn’t hoarding any, and there was no telltale smell on him, or in the house anywhere. Gustav did periodic sweeps of the premises, but no, nothing.

Four weeks was a great start; every day, really, was a victory with an addiction, and the kisses were few and far between now, and Gustav wasn’t bothering with the disgusting concoctions anymore – there seemed no need.

And it was time for him to go home.

He came downstairs that morning to find Georg up, and tying his shoes – the ones Gustav had bought him, his ‘victory’ shoes with the orange laces.

He looked up when he felt Gustav’s eyes on him, and smiled. “Snazzy, huh?”

“Very. The orange laces bring out the highlights in your hair; very fetching.”

“Asshole. Wanna go for a run?”

“You go. I’ll make some breakfast for you for when you come back, and then, I should head out.”

“To where?”

“Home, Geo – you did it, you beat it. I’m really, really proud of you. And seeing you lace those up makes me very happy. You did something tough and rocked it.”

“Oh.” Georg swallowed. “You know I couldn’t have done it without you, right?”

“You did it pretty comically with me. But sure, I’ll go with that. Get your ass in gear and I’ll make eggs. Go on.”

He smacked Georg’s butt lightly and watched him leave, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, before going and starting breakfast.

When Georg got back, he was flushed, hair damp and chest heaving. “Fuck, that is not as easy as I thought it would be.”

“Never is. But you did it. You’re the man, Georg Moritz Hagen Listing.” He smiled. “Catch your breath and sit down and eat.”

Georg smiled for him, then nodded and rubbed his neck before going over and sitting down next to Gustav, taking his paper. “I have an urge,” he said, unapologetically, and Gustav sighed. 

“Really? You were doing so well, and I …”

But Georg was kissing him - not a peck, but a smooch, a smooch that turned into parted lips, tongues exploring, and possibly, tonsils being tickled. And maybe there were hands tangled in hair, or fingers gripping a hip through thin cotton boxers and maybe even more than that.

Maybe.

What was a month, anyway?


End file.
